


The Force, Awakened

by IronAquilifer



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-16 13:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14166351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronAquilifer/pseuds/IronAquilifer
Summary: Thirty years after the destruction of the Second Death Star, and the deaths of Emperor Palpatine and Darth Vader, the galaxy has moved on from the tyranny of the New Order under the leadership of the New Republic.  In the fringes of known space, however, there remains an enclave who refuse to submit to the new government.  With renewed vigor, they intend to restore the Empire.Without the resources to confront the Republic in open war, the First Order has reverted to a shadow war, cultivating strenuous alliances and packs with the intention of winning for themselves the weapons necessary to throw the Republic into disarray.  One such weapon is Kylo Ren, a zealous force user who has already earned infamy for his brutality.Rey is a scavenger on the junk world of Jakku, alone save for her fellow workers.  The discovery of a certain droid and its master, however, will bring her into a quest to uncovering a missing war hero from the Galactic Civil War.  Against the machinations of the First Order and its agents, this young woman from a nowhere planet will discover a world thought lost, and with it the understanding of what she is.An AU retelling of The Force Awakens





	1. The Prince

Ploughing through the abyss of space, the Imperial Star Destroyer  _ Prince _ turned its arrowhead prow towards the distinctive orb of a grey planet like a shark tasting the irresistible scent of blood.  Just like any predator whose whole existence revolved around the hunt, it prepared to gorge itself on the flesh of its prey.

“The informer confirms that both Lor San Tekka and his Republic contact are still in the village.”  The officer’s voice echoed through the bridge, high and tight from nerves. He could not have been long past twenty, the telltale marks of puberty still disfiguring the skin of his face.

The Empire would not have allowed such an untested youth to sit a bridge station, not when it could call upon the experience of a million other officers.  However the  _ Prince _ had not flown beneath the banner of the Empire for almost thirty years, and its crew had never attended an Imperial naval academy.  For good or ill, he was of a new breed dedicated to a more pure form of discipline.

“Very good,” Armitage Hux declared with a smile.  Turning to his side, the general fixed his eyes on a soldier in chrome armour.  “Captain Phasma, prepare your men. Supreme Leader Snoke wants this affair dealt with as quickly as possible.”

Phasma would have been an oddity in the ranks of the Empire: a woman who chose to take the path of the stormtrooper over that of a naval officer.  However all on the  _ Prince _ knew to fear and respect her in equal measure.  It had been her leadership which saw them provided with a corp of stormtroopers surpassing even their own predecessors in ferocity.  She had been the one to oversee the training facilities on the desolate wastelands of Amaic and Coruga, planets that could not be colonised by any sane citizen.

The soldier, looking more bear than woman in her personal suit of battle armour, inclined her head.  “It will be done,” an amplified voice responded, measured and feminine.

Armitage did not watch the stormtrooper leave, satisfying himself with listening to the distinctive click of her boots striking the bridge’s floor.  Instead he looked out of the view panels at the fore of his command center, his eyes narrowing towards the planet before them.

_ Jakku _ .  It was more graveyard than planet.  Jakku was the resting place of his father’s hopes of a galaxy untouched by the cancer of woe.  It was here that the Empire had died, almost thirty years ago. Here, on and above a world more junk than rock, and more rock than anything of worth.  Here was where the realisations of a trillion dreams for peace and safety had been shattered. Jakku was the graveyard of the Empire.

The rebels had carved out themselves a realm of anarchy on the back of the Battle of Endor, feasting like carrion on planets longing for the comfort of Imperial authority.  Infecting once good systems with their deceits the rebellion and its allies spread like an untended flame for three years. By the time the admirals and moffs had found themselves truly comprehending the threat posed by the rebellion, the Core Worlds were already beginning to face down the danger of X-Wing squadrons flying victory parades over their skies.

And so it was on the shoulders of Grand Admiral Rae Sloane that the hopes of ten thousand worlds under rebel occupation rested. With the remnants of almost twenty Sector Groups and commanding from the Imperial Star Dreadnought  _ Ravager _ , Sloane presented the rebels with the largest single formation of Imperial might ever seen.  The battle should have been theirs for the taking, the rebels even at this stage unable to match such a complete massing of military industry.  And yet victory slipped through Rae’s fingers.

She had waited too long above the desolate planet, teasing out the trail of her whereabouts so that more Imperial forces could reach her for the confrontation.  Eventually the other admirals became impatient, paranoid as the rebels were led to one Imperial stronghold after another without coming close to discovering their awaiting doom above the skies of Jakku.  Fearing that the Grand Admiral was only interested in ridding herself of rivals for the Imperial throne, soon conspiracies of desertion and even outright defection became the talk of ship captains throughout the once proud Imperial fleet.

The talk was so prolific, so tightly gripping the officers under her command, that when the rebels finally appeared, with a fleet so large that it could cast Jakku in eternal night by itself, it was not a single Imperial force that confronted it but rather a hundred factions waiting their chance to escape.  And escape they did.

“Are any ships attempting to approach us?” Hux asked his command crew, his voice carrying over the soft purr of activity.

It took a moment for an officer to inform him that they indeed had not drawn the interest of any other vessel, whether it be a local patrol craft asking for clearance or braindead traders hoping to make a quick exchange of their grey market goods.  That, at the least, was an unexpected blessing of the carnage inflicted upon the galaxy by the rebellion. When Rae’s forces finally conceded defeat to the rebels following her death and fled to the Unknown Region, it opened up three years of Imperial infighting.  Admirals became claimants to the Imperial Throne overnight, and moffs ruled as monarchs over their worlds. The feuding between the newborn warlords and the rebellion saw nine of every ten warships once flying under the Imperial banner obliterated or damaged beyond repair as they fought to the death in the name of a hundred splinter realms.  Even now, the New Republic and her vassal worlds could scarce muster up enough ships to give a third of their systems the same level of protection afforded them by the Empire.

As such Jakku truly was undefended, simply one stop out of a thousand for a weary and long absent Republican squadron.  There would be no opposition to the arrival of their forces. And that was a telling story in and of itself. Jakku sat firmly within the Inner Rim, the thick band of systems whose sole distinction to Imperial records were its breeding grounds of dissent that would rival that of the Outer Rim in terms of appeal.  It was a home world of the rebellion, the closest the so-called New Republic could call one of its founding members. The Empire had once filled the skies of such worlds with their presence, eager for the industry that they possessed. To have such a weak naval might that even one such world could go without a demonstration of control made Hux eager for the coming invasion of the First Order to reclaim what had been lost.

“General Hux.”

Even without turning, the young commander knew who it was that addressed him.  The synthetic voice seemed to buzz, as if sand had gotten lodged into the amplifier he wore.  No one else aboard the  _ Prince _ sounded like that.  Not even Phasma’s personal command of stormtroopers, whose perpetually-worn helmets had turned their voices into wet gravel.

“Lord Ren,” Armitage answered with informal satisfaction.  “Jakku lays defenseless before us.”

“And Lor San?”

Lord Ren did not move to join Hux against the bridge screen, instead remaining at a distance down the command deck.  The general almost smiled, knowing the posture he was sure the black-clad man used as he did he was attempting to be authoritative.  The Supreme Leader had an interesting choice in who he accepted into his close counsel.

“The elder is still in a meeting with a Republic pilot.  They will not know we are onto them before it is too late to flee.”  Of that he was certain. The chrome clad captain preparing their trained assault party would see to it that such a statement became truth.

The answer seemed to satisfy the Supreme Leader’s pet, who responded by allowing a silence to linger between them.  He was not a man of many words Armitage had discovered, when he was first forced to ferry Lord Ren from one former Imperial world to the next.  Not when things were as they were supposed to be, at least. And the general ensured that things were as they were supposed to be.

It was a state that both men were only too happy to agree upon, for there was little else where they could come to the same result.

“I will lead the assault,” Ren finally announced.  It sounded dangerously close to a command for Hux’s liking.

Even so, it did not come as any great surprise.  He was a pet for a reason, and chasing after the bones of old men and corrupt organisations was the one thing that Lord Ren seemed adequately suited for.  To be caged, even in such a majestic construction as an Imperial Star Destroyer, was something that no hunting beast would accept pacifly for any great deal of time.  Armitage found that to be the evidence he needed to support the notion that Ren had no true understanding of the wonderment that went into the building of an Imperial Star Destroyer.  Or anything else that had served as the undying symbols of Imperial power.

“Your personal shuttle is already being prepared,” Hux replied, a smile of self praise worming its way across the reflection he saw in the window.  “I shall expect a successful mission, just as the Supreme Leader demands.”

“You are in no position to make demands,” the buzzing voice reminded.

Hux felt himself turning to face the masked figure, his smile gone.  Before he could reply, Ren had already mirrored his movement. Instead of standing to defend his words against those of Hux, the man was already running away.  It was something he did more often than the First Order general cared to admit. For a moment Armitage thought to speak anyway, to call out after the retreating figure.  But the moment was gone, and he was left staring at the vacant bridge entrance.

No subordinate of Hux’s command would dare speak to him like that.  They had been trained, disciplined to a level that even some Imperial officers had lacked.  Not Ren. And not the shadowy band of killers that he commanded. No, their training came from the Supreme Leader himself to hear Ran speak true.  And because of that, they were not of the First Order’s military, of its chain of command perfected over three decades of enforced exile from the civilised worlds that once knelt before a Star Destroyer and her captain.

“General,” the unshaved officer said when the mongrel in black had blessed the bridge with his departure.  “Captain Phasma is ready.”

Armitage allowed him to forget about Lord Ren, drawing in a heavy lungful of air that had the scent of promised victory.  “Commence the assault.”

Soon, sooner than the rebels would think, he would give that command and the New Republic would die.


	2. The Meeting

“This will begin to make things right.  I have seen too much to ignore the despair in the galaxy.  Without the Jedi, there can be no balance in the Force.”

Lor San Tekka was an old Twi’lek, his once bright skin turned to the pale grey of all who walked the surface of Jakku.  He had endured through the Clone Wars and the War to Restore the Republic both, an accomplishment a diminishing minority could claim as their own with any degree of truth.  Yet despite that, or more likely because of it, he still held himself with an infectious aura of youthful energy. If the Separatists nor the Empire had not managed to destroy his spirit, then there was little Poe Dameron could see bringing him low.

“Well now we have a chance,” Poe answered, accepting a carefully preserved datadisk from the elder.

Lor San noticed the way the Republic pilot handled the disk, as if it were merely the first of a long line of gifts he had come to collect.  “What is it that troubles you, Poe?”

“Is this really it all?” Poe said, more statement than question.  “It just seems too fragile to be the answer to a galaxy’s hopes.”

“It was a single disk that held the future of the Alliance in its memory, all those years ago.  All that really matters is the information contained within,” the old man explained softly. “While it is no plan for a weapon of terror, it contains something more important: the information key to finding Skywalker.”

The Skywalker name was known to all in the New Republic.  All knew of his story, of his place in bringing down the Empire.  Luke Skywalker had been a farmer from the Outer Rim world of Tatooine, a farmer until the day droids bearing vital intelligence for the rebellion found themselves wandering into his uncle’s farm.  When the Imperials killed the only family he knew, Luke joined forces with a band of rebel fighters, saving Princess Leia and destroying the first Death Star. And three years later he faced the Emperor and Lord Vader aboard their second Death Star, defeating them even as the now unified Rebel Alliance destroyed the Empire’s weapon of terror.  He was a symbol that had been hoisted up by the fledgling New Republic as they rolled back the Imperial remnants, a face and name spoken of by everyone from Mygeeto to Utapau. And now he was missing.

“Well,” Poe answered, finding his natural self again.  “Now thanks to you, we have a chance.” A smile finally broke free as he allowed the weight of the moment to reach him.  “The senator has been looking for this for a long time.”

“Senator?” the Twi’lek elder echoed his guest’s smile.  “To me she is royalty.”

“Well, she certainly is that.”

Before they could say anything more, the entrance to Lor San’s home swung open to admit a droid.  BB-8 looked like a half-finished snowman: a dome resting almost precariously atop a spherical body.  Even in the dim candlelight of Lor San’s home, the bright colours of the droid seemed to shine.

“What is is BB-8?” Poe asked, secreting the datadisk into one of his flight suit pockets.

He received an answer of fearful beeps, the astromech gesturing with its head towards the village outside.  Nodding in understanding, Poe followed BB-8 out into the warm night. Behind him, Lor San followed.

The village of Tuanul was a modest settlement, nestling in the Prime Ravine like a fox cub sheltering from winter snow.  Three dozen huts made up the entirety of the village, a humble home for the humble followers of the Church of the Force. They worshipped the Force, keeping the faith alive even during the dark days of the Empire.  Some had even taken up arms, joining the rebellion when it was still just the dream of a thousand disenfranchised troublemakers all those years ago. Back then the Imperials had turned what had been desert into a vast industrial powerhouse, manufacturing the weapons by which they would subjugate the galaxy.

And so the Church had sabotaged the convoys, bombed the inner machinery of the factories, and stole what rifles and starfighters they could.  And for their service to the rebellion they had asked for nothing. Nothing but the chance to life their lives by the ideals laid down in their holy texts.  It was an admirable quality of the people, who had been forced to bear such undue hardship. A quality that was going to be repaid in tragedy.

Following the guidance of his astromech Poe raised his magnoculars, pointing them towards the dark sky.  In normal times he would have considered the view almost beautiful, with what seemed like a galaxy-worth of stars shining stark against the black.  However these were not normal times. Four of the stars were moving.

Zooming in on the rogue lights, the pilot recoiled as the distinctive triangular silhouette of  _ Sentinel _ -class landers came into focus.  He paused, the sight of such a formation meaning he and the village were in trouble.   _ How _ ?   _ Why _ ?

“The First Order,” he breathed, before his training kicked back in.  “You need to hide, now.”

“You need to leave now,” Lor San countered, not moving despite the fact that they could see the landers approaching with the naked eye.  “Go, find Master Luke and make sure they cannot harm anyone else.”

_ Not until I get you to safety _ , Poe almost said, instinctively reaching out for the older man.  His arm stopped before it had straightened, the pilot acknowledging the clenched jaw of Lor San.  Instead he merely nodded before setting off towards his ship, mentally listing all of the safety checks that he was going to have to do without.  Hammering his boots into the grey dust of Jakku, Poe ran past the few wake villagers without stopping. Above the whirr and buzz of BB-8 keeping pace, he could make out the distinctive hum of the Sentinel engines closing in on their position.  And behind it, like the crack of a whip, Lor San waking his people to readiness.

“Hurry up BB-8,” he called as he crested a shallow rise of stone that marked the boundary of the village.

Beyond it, bathed in the soft glow of distant campfires, sat his starcraft.  It was an E-wing escort starfighter, painted in the white and gold of the Second Fleet.  Across its flank an artistic mechanic had marked out each of Poe’s successful missions in black, the badges running from the cockpit all the way to the nose.  Normally he would run his fingers across the trophies for luck. Normally he wasn’t racing against a hourglass on its final thimble of sand.

He did not turn back for one final glance of the village as he reached the E-wing, instead hurling up the ladder to his cockpit with practiced ease.  Even as he fell into his seat, Poe could hear the Sentinels beginning to land, their blaster cannons opening fire with their distinctive thudding .  _ Hurry up _ , he chanted like a mantra.   _ Hurry up _ ,  _ hurry up _ .  His prayer was met with an answering buzz as the starfighter lit up as it readied for flight.

Before the engines could light up however, blaster fire struck the starfighter.  Poe felt his face bathed in red as warning signals began displaying on his computer screen.   _ Starboard engine _ , he acknowledged with a clenched jaw.   _ Port stabilisers _ .   _ We can fix this _ .  Another volley of blaster bolts struck against the rear of the ship, scorching the metal and circuitry behind it.

“Let’s check it,” he told his droid companion, throwing himself out of the cockpit and back onto the grey earth.   _ We better not be stuck here _ , he thought darkly as he dived towards the rear of his ship.

For a second the pilot paled.  Fire had begun to take hold where it had no right to be.  And the holes left by the blasters were vicious looking things, with the metal twisted and warped by the force of the strikes.  If he had been inside one of the old X-wing models, he was sure to have gone up in flames.

“Not getting this thing flying,” he muttered to himself.

BB-8 pulled up beside him, a soft squawk of concern emitting from its voice box.  It too could see the damage. Looking up expectantly at him, Poe found himself letting out a sigh as he came to a decision.

Kneeling before his droid, the pilot reached into his pocket and pulled out the disk that was the cause of this attack.  “You take this. It is far safer with you than it is with me. Get as far away from here you understand? You hear me?”

BB-8 offered a mournful beep of understanding.

“I’ll come back.  I will find you, alright?  Everything is going to be fine.”

With one final note of acknowledgement, Poe’s aide turned and fled off into the dark, a soft groove marking his progress in the grey sands.

“Everything is going to be fine,” he muttered again.


	3. The Assault

The life of a stormtrooper is equal parts boredom and horror.  Days were spent drilling aboard the  _ Prince _ , waiting for the chance to finally confront the Republic on the battlefield.  On any battlefield. What time wasn’t spent on the same three combat simulations had been divided equally into psych evaluation and sleep.  Not natural sleep, however. Only enforced drug sleep could be merited. The kind without any dreams, without any chance fors thoughts to run free.  One day rolled into the next, the soldiers left with only the countdown to deployment as their way of keeping track of the passage of time.

And after months of that level of boredom, it was only natural that the universe reset the balance with an equal measure of horror.

Blaster fire greeted them, striking like the wave of a tsunami before the assault ramp even had a chance to fully descend.  One of the troopers at the front collapsed, a smoking hole in the middle of his knee. Another followed him, his cries cut short as a hail of bright lights melted his helmet open.  The third to die managed to reach the grey dust of Jakku before his armour and the heart beneath gave way.

“For the Order!”

FN-2187’s first image of Jakku was a planet in pain.  The blaster fire from their transports had set a dozen huts ablaze, tongues of flame lustfully lashing out to taste cloth and fabric and flesh.  Stray blaster bolts struck the sands about him, turning the dark grains to glass and diamond.

Pushing forward, the stormtrooper brought his blaster to bear, letting off a wild shot towards the villagers.  The bolt missed combatant and civilian and dwelling, flying off harmlessly into the night. Taking a dozen hurried steps to keep pace with his comrades, the trooper squeezed the trigger again.  He could feel the training take hold, driving fear and thought away to let instinct take over.

Despite the lack of sunlight, the battle illuminated itself.  Bolts of blue and red energy lept from blaster to body, lightning conjured at the fingertips of mortals that cast painful light over the dozens of fighters charging at one another.  One moment the entire village was wreathed in red, the next in a twilight black that vainly tried to embrace newly made corpses.

FN-2187 lunged into an empty ditch, a blast shaking him to his core.  An alien emotion gripped him, driving him further into the ground as a volley of vengeful light struck around him.  The scream of a muffled amplifier announced another dead squadmate, the collapsing figure falling by his side.

“Get up trooper,” a metallic growl drove into his ear.  “Forward.”

The distinctive bark of Captain Phasma temporarily banished the fear of death.  At least a blaster bolt had the chance of ending it all before agony had the time to set in.

Picking himself up from the dirt of the junk world, the trooper lurched forward once more.  Already the First Order were beginning to get in amongst the enemy, flamer units vomiting forth thick lashes of golden flame to burn away the supposed cancer that was the village.  The distinctive crack of blaster fire had started to abate as he hurried towards the last stragglers, giving the dying a chance to fill the skies with their final pained cries.

“We surrender! We-“

The voice was cut off by the thunder of a stray bolt, the body collapsing out of sight.  Others picked up the call, from behind burning hovels and within newly gouged craters. First it was two, then five, suddenly amassing into a symphony chorus of surrender that the stray bolts were unable to stop them.

FN-2187 felt his pace slow, giving his mind a chance to catch up.  A hand reached up to his chest, feeling the heavy thud of his heart though layers of armour separated it from his fingers.  There was pain too. No shot had neared him, whether to scorch his breastplate nor scratch his helmet, and yet the feeling so agonising in the simulations gripped him with a fierce grasp that was all too real.

He felt himself fall to a knee, not knowing if it was by choice.   _ I can’t breathe _ .  He had forgotten how.  It was a simple act, one which all living things learned to perform without needing to think about it.   _ I can’t breathe _ .

Another trooper appeared beside him.  For a moment, a brief insane heartbeat, he thought that he recognised his comrade despite the white mask that they all wore.  FN-2187 found himself standing again, though he could not remember how. Taking an unsteady pace forward he did not recall deciding to perform, the soldier raised his face to get his bearing.  The men of his company were beginning to round up the villagers, barging into the few hovels yet standing to drag out those too young or frightened to have resisted they assault.

Propelled more by a stranger’s hand on his shoulder than any real desire to take another step forward, FN-2187 found himself in the circle of newly made guards for the civilian hostages.  There were dozens of them still alive, herded against what could have easily been a communications array or village shrine. He saw the fear in their eyes, reflected with as much intensity as the fires that burned around them.  Their whimpers, like a brutalised pet, sounded louder to him that the deep buzzing of the transports around them.

“Lord Ren,” growled Captain Phasma in what sounded like mockery.  “We have him.”

_ Him _ was a twilek elder, wrapped in robes of purple and green.   _ Him _ was a captive forced to his knees in the grey ash of the ground.   _ Him _ was an old man who seemed willing to raise his eyes to meet those of the Supreme Leader’s most infamous warrior.

“You have lived too long,” Lord Ren announced, his voice reaching out across the battlefield.  “Look how frail you have become.”

FN-2187 glanced back at the villagers.  They were as engrossed in the meeting as him, as tense as they were.  It was as if they, somehow, had forgotten the terror of the assault.

“Growing old is not one of my failings,” the kneeling prisoner replied.  “Though I fear that the path you are walking will blind you from that truth.”

“You know why I am here,” Lord Ren declared from behind his mask.  “The map to the Jedi temple. I know you have it.”

“I know what once drove you, before you started calling yourself Kylo Ren.”

FN-2187 flinched.  He could feel the barb strike at his commander as if it were a physical strike.  And perhaps the captive could sense it too.

“You will give the First Order what it wants.  No one can resist the power of the darkside."

“The First Order was born from the darkside.  You were not. Your family is the truth of that.”

A blaster bolt rang out across the dark sky.  FN-2187 barely had the time to register it, striking towards the dark lord with fatal accuracy.  He had not even managed to flinch in the time Lord Ren twisted to face his death.

But the bolt never reached him.

Instead it hovered above the blackened dust of Jakku, writhing like a serpent leashed and chained.  And behind it, standing as if submerged in suddenly icing water, was a man.

Two troopers stormed towards the new figure, beating him to the ground with savage precision.  They dragged him to rest beside the twilek captive, their excursions silent against the backdrop of the dead village.  He had the look of a Republican pilot, the jacket proudly displaying colours of one of their famous fleets.

FN-2187 looked around him, acknowledging that none of his comrades seemed to care about what had just happened.  The captives however, were already clustering tighter together. Few beings could ever claim to have seen a force user, and fewer yet the power to stop objects in motion.

“So who talks first.  You talk first?”

“You gave it to him?”  It could have been a question, but the trooper could only feel that it was a statement.

The pilot continued to speak, though no one seemed interested in what he had to say.  Instead the robed warlord commanded the two captives carried away, the troopers hauling them onboard Lord Ren’s personal shuttle unceremoniously.

“Lord, what is to be done with the villagers?”

FN-2187 snapped his head towards Captain Phasma, who had taken up a position beside the force user.  Despite her helmet’s metallic grate, he could hear the malice in her voice.

“Kill them all.”

The villagers recoiled, a fresh chorus of wails drowning out Phasma’s order to raise blasters.  She advanced on the firing line with an energy few in that moment could have been able to match.

_ No _ .  The pain in his chest returned, redoubling in strength as his comrades trained on the defenceless civilians.  He felt his arms instinctively raise his weapon even though they were as heavy as gold. Gazing down at his targets, the trooper felt the urge to beg their forgiveness.

“Fire.”

A dozen troopers began to mow down their captives with an ease that should not have come from soldiers so unused to the action.  One heartbeat, two, and it was over. Flamer units moved forward, igniting their weapons to scour clean the crime they had committed.

_ That was a crime _ , a voice that sounded like his own muttered in his head.   _ This is wrong _ .

At that silent thought, FN-2187 let out an anguished sigh.  The pain had spread to his head, tendrils of razor sharp glass scraping against his skull.  And then it was gone, with the corpses of the slain.


End file.
